


My Fair Lady (or the one where Aramis admires Porthos's dress)

by Ponderosa



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Black Male Character, Canon Character of Color, Crossdressing, Genderfuck, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis casts a look towards d’Artagnan that proves unnecessary as Athos prudently shepherds the boy and their quarry out the door. It’s when Athos reappears solely to toss a sharp glance their way and yank the door shut that Aramis shakes his head; simply because he’d begun to run the very tips of his fingers over Porthos’s bare shoulder hardly means that he’s feeling amorous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Fair Lady (or the one where Aramis admires Porthos's dress)

With five grown men in its confines, the room is filled to capacity. Now that the prisoner is secured, Aramis carefully sheathes his sword, while d’Artagnan, who has stepped just over the threshold, takes in the sight before him.

“You look ridiculous!” d’Artagnan blurts out. He’s quick to stifle the laugh that tries to follow his exclamation as his wide-eyed gaze stays fixed on Porthos.

Aramis glances away from the boy’s spreading grin to catch Porthos’s brow lower into a flat and menacing line. Moving swiftly, Aramis navigates the mess of upended furniture to slap a hand to the flat of the corset laced around Porthos’s chest. There’s no need to undo all the work they’d just done to ensnare the fugitive by brawling amongst themselves.

“I think you look remarkably fetching,” Aramis says, and the compliment turns night to day. Porthos’s stormy expression eases instantly, the furrow fading from his brow. 

He gathers himself to his full height and preens like a peacock. The outward puff of his chest is no different than when he’s showing off in the training yard, except-- Except for the span of bare flesh and the way the meat of his chest is pushed up, molded in a such a way that the illusion holds that a pull to the laces would have full breasts spilling free. It’s difficult not to stare.

“Do you?” Porthos asks.

“I do,” Aramis replies. With a finger toying with the laces, he keeps Porthos’s attention and drags it away from the slight. In the corner of his eye, he catches the faint twist to Athos’s mouth. “In fact, I’d say you’re the most handsome woman in the entire establishment.”

“Now you’re stretching the truth,” Porthos says, his tone partly a warning and partly steeped in smugness. He drives the point of the poniard he’d liberated from the madame’s would-be assassin into the wood of a cracked chest of drawers and leaves it quivering there.

Aramis casts a look towards d’Artagnan that proves unnecessary as Athos prudently shepherds the boy and their quarry out the door. It’s when Athos reappears solely to toss a sharp glance their way and yank the door shut that Aramis shakes his head; simply because he’d begun to run the very tips of his fingers over Porthos’s bare shoulder hardly means that he’s feeling amorous.

Porthos, though, with a roguish grin and the way he crowds in a step closer-- Porthos, who props a hand upon the bedpost rising up behind Aramis’s shoulder and whose nose twitches like a hound just before he leans in and says, “Tell me again how handsome I am.”

“I’d have you on your back in a heartbeat,” Aramis murmurs, his eyes tracking down the line of Porthos’s throat. His knuckles follow the same path, stopping to trace the edge of the corset. As big as he is, as broad in the shoulder, with the veil on, Porthos had been a remarkably effective decoy. And now, without the scrap of fabric hiding his beard, Aramis is surprised to find him no less desirable.

“As one of your daring rescuers, perhaps you’re ready to throw yourself into my arms so I can do just that.”

“Way I recall, you were on your arse and I had to resort to knocking him out with a well-aimed chair.” Porthos ceases looming and gathers his skirts in handfuls, baring his legs as he drops down to sit at the very end of the bed. With a hand propped casually on his thigh, he looks very much the brother in arms that Aramis knows well, and yet the drape of the skirts between his bare, widespread legs befits their surroundings. It makes for a fascinating puzzle to the eye.

“Details,” Aramis says, waving his hand.

Porthos’s mouth is curled up at the very corners as finely as his moustache, and he laughs when Aramis drops a kiss on the bare slope of his shoulder.

Unable to keep his own mouth from pulling towards a smile, Aramis strips down to shirt and breeches, and by the time he has a hand sneaking up under Porthos’s dress, there’s a giddy thrill alive in his chest.

“Should I play coy?” Porthos asks.

Aramis palms him lightly beneath his skirts. “It’s not entirely your strong suit,” Aramis tells him. It’s pleasurable touching Porthos like this, different than the usual drunken fumbling or quick bit of sport when things are dull and there are no women to be found. The skin beneath his fingers is soft and hot, and when his thumb finds a bit of slickness to spread around, Porthos makes the loveliest little growl.

He makes the sound again when Aramis takes his mouth, and once more when Aramis urges him to lay on his back with the simple nudge of a chin and the press of a knee to the bed. When their mouths part and Aramis finds the lamp, returning with fingers oil-slick and dripping, it’s a moan that Porthos gives him.

“You’ll make a mess if I keep the dress on,” Porthos says, already driving himself against the fingers curved inside him. Eager as he is, he doesn’t open up easily, and his hands clutch at the bedding as Aramis uses both hands to stroke him inside and out.

With his thigh, Aramis pushes Porthos’s legs wide and then wider yet, until his heels are digging into the mattress and his knees are peaked. The crude sprawl of Porthos’s legs and the outline of his cock tenting the fabric makes Aramis’s pulse quicken remarkably. Porthos’s enthusiasm for many things is great, and when that passion is turned towards indulging Aramis’s whims, it never fails to arouse Aramis further.

He enjoys watching where his hand shifts beneath the patterned skirts as he would if it were a cunt he stroked and not Porthos’s cock, and he only stops for fear that Porthos will end up spent and drowsy and interested solely in a nap. “Were you planning on keeping it?” 

“I rather like the color. Think it looks good on me.”

Aramis laughs before he runs the flat of his tongue along the swelling of Porthos’s bosom. “That it does, but a bit tough to fight in,” he remarks.

Porthos agrees with a slur of words that’s hardly more than a mumble. Aramis licks a path up to where his pulse is the liveliest, and his head falls back to expose even more of his neck to Aramis’s mouth. Aramis takes full advantage and Porthos’s breath deepens, the lacing of his bodice creaking even as his body grows ever more accommodating.

When Aramis judges him loose enough and slides his fingers free, Porthos cracks an eye open. "Finally," he says, and drags the skirts higher in slow, teasing inches. Though shadowed still, Aramis is granted the view of Porthos’s hole gleaming with oil, hair around it plastered to his skin in dark whorls. Only the tip of his cock remains hidden and Aramis makes no move to uncover it, settling instead into place, his body slotting familiarly against Porthos's. He curses softly as he sinks into the heat of Porthos's body, and he's hardly settled before the hasty upward jerk of Porthos’s hips commands him to get started.

As with gambling, Porthos has always proven to have straightforward desires in bed, though the more he drinks the more creative he gets. Sober as he is now, all he cares for is a steady fucking, and he chews at the corner of his lip as Aramis builds up pace. His hands clutch at the base of Aramis's neck, fingers catching in the fine hairs there, and he meets the slam of Aramis's body against his own with raw enthusiasm. 

"You know, Porthos, I'd marry you if you were truly a woman," Aramis says, words gasped out between gulps of air. He pauses at the peak of a thrust, holds in place where everything is hot and perfect.

Beneath him, Porthos arches his spine and he grinds his hips in a filthy circle that steals Aramis’s next breath. "I’d rather be your mistress than your wife," Porthos says. His hands slip from Aramis’s neck to press warm against his face instead. The expression he wears is one of fondness.

“And why is that?” Aramis asks, turning his head to scrape a kiss along the callused heel of Porthos’s hand.

Porthos scoffs. “Better gifts, of course.”

“Pirate,” Aramis accuses, his own fondness echoing in the word and in the silence that follows. Gently, he takes the tip of Porthos’s thumb into his mouth and watches as dark eyes go darker still, then narrow to slivers like a content cat. He begins to move his hips again, building into long strokes that bring them both exquisite pleasure if the sounds Porthos makes can be trusted. Placing his weight on a wrists, he looks down at the space between their bodies and delights at the way Porthos moves to meet each push of his hips.

“I meant it, you know,” he says, and switches as whimsy takes him between kissing the scratch of whiskers scattered across Porthos’s throat and the smooth skin of his heaving chest. “You are, without doubt, the most handsome woman in the place. Though only the second-most handsome man, of course.”

Happy to let Aramis do all the work and soak up the compliments, he stretches to make himself more comfortable. “Of course,” Porthos says, chuckling quietly. “Athos is still downstairs, isn’t he?”

“You strike for the heart,” Aramis remarks, mockingly wounded. When he undoes the laces of the bodice and tugs Porthos’s chemise down, freeing more skin to wet with kisses, Porthos props his arms beneath his head. The upward stretch of Porthos’s arms draws tight his chest, dark circles of his nipples inviting the scrape of teeth. A nibbling bite and soothing lick doesn’t get a jolt out of him, but Aramis enjoys it regardless, flesh made tender under an ongoing assault that will leave Porthos grumbling about it until late in the evening.

When he sits back on his heels again to admire the whole of Porthos spread out before him and the stretch where Porthos takes him whole, it’s a fine enough sight to make him feel like a very greedy man. The slap of hips forward makes for some delightful jiggling, and Aramis is about to flip the concealing hem of the skirts out of the way when Porthos gets a hand on himself through the fabric, stroking high and tight and with clarity of purpose.

One arm remains behind his head, the muscle there bunching pleasingly, a hard twitch or two betraying how close Porthos is to coming. Aramis’s gaze skips between the pull of Porthos’s hand and the flash of his tongue, wetting his lips over and over in a dreadful sort of tease. Aramis is about to succumb to the urge to help with a slow lick of his own when Porthos’s body goes tense. Immediately he looks to Porthos’s hand and the fabric drawn tight under his fist. The spreading stain and the slide of come that spills like cream down to the base of Porthos’s cock starts up a trembling in Aramis’s belly. His rhythm falters as Porthos’s body seizes even tighter around him, and he falls forward onto his wrists again to finish himself, fucking hard and fast enough to hasten his breath and leave him open-mouthed and gasping when he comes.

With trembling limbs, Aramis slumps against Porthos. After a moment, he lists to the side, untangling their bodies as best he can. He presses a kiss to whatever bare patch of skin is nearest. His hands wander--as they often do after a good fuck, when there’s little more he wants than to continue enjoying the body of his lover--drifting down to smooth the fabric left rumpled at Porthos’s hip.

“Feels nice,” Porthos remarks. “Maybe I _should_ keep the dress.”

“I wouldn’t complain.”

Aramis feels Porthos’s laugh before it bursts rich into the air. “You certainly wouldn’t,” Porthos says. His arm settles to rest around Aramis, warm and heavy. “But if I leave it behind, will you still tell me that I’m pretty?”

Grinning, Aramis moves to lay his hand on the center of Porthos’s chest, and he says, with all sincerity, “As often as you’d like to hear it, my dear friend.”


End file.
